


Nothing without you

by Never laugh at a live Sherlock (smaugholmeswatson)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Angst and Feels, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaugholmeswatson/pseuds/Never%20laugh%20at%20a%20live%20Sherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative version of 'The Great Game' episode in which the bomb actually goes off and our hero's end up in hospital. Who is the one whose life is slowly slipping away?</p><p>Sad and angsty with no happy ending (you have been warned).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock's goodbye

'Please John, don't die.' This is the only thought running through my head as I listen to the steadily beeping machines surrounding me, all of them mapping out a heartbeat that was gradually beginning to fade away to nothing. A shudder runs down my back and a hollow pit of emptyness opened within his stomach, doubling me over with its sheer intensity. Why are emotions so painful? If I had known I never would have allowed a friendship to develop between me and John Watson. Not that I think I could have stopped it. Despite my best attempts to keep him out John had somehow managed to break through my defences and make an impact on me. I curse quietly to myself. Because of my own stupid weakness John is hurt and it is all my fault. If he dies I will never forgive myself. I breathe deeply a few times in an attempt to calm myself but it does not work. Instead I bury my head in my hands to hide the tears dripping down my cheeks. Why did this have to happen? John does not deserve to die. If it should be anyone lying in a hospital bed bleeding out it should be me...I'm the one who Moriarty was after. I clench my fists, feeling anger rising within me. Jim Moriarty- the Consulting Criminal. Until he came along everything had been so much simplier. From the moment I began to suspect that he was involved I should have warned John, at least told him what to look out for. Maybe if I had Moriarty would never have been able to kidnap him and hold him hostage by forcing him to wear an explosive vest. I can still remember all the well the moment I entered the silent, empty swimming pool and found John standing before me. 

At first I had been shocked. Could John be the one behind this sadistic game? But then events had all too horribly become clear when Moriarty himself had appeared, taunting me and threatening to "burn the heart" out of me. Because of my new weakness when it came to emotions I found myself actually hoping it was all over when he had abruptly left, giving me the oppotunity to tear the explosive vest from John. A small smile quirks up the side of my mouth as I remember what John had said it me then, "I'm glad no-one saw that. You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk," but it quickly vanishes again. My hope had been short lived because, predictably, Moriarty had returned. A strangled sound halfway between a sob and a gasp escapes me. Instead of panicking or pleading with Moriaty to spare us John had looked at me with trusting eyes and nodded, showing me that I could do what needed to be done. Numbly I stare down at my hands. Surely I could have come up with a better solution than that? Even now, several hours later, I can still feel the heavy weight of the gun in my hand, feel my finger tightening on the trigger... 

Damn it! Despite all my grand boasts and my displays of intellect I had in a moment of crisis done the predictable, what anybody else would have done. Sure there were sniper's pointing their guns at us but I am sure I could have found another way if I had just thought about it for a while. No, that's not true. I did not have the luxary of time. It was either react or die. Though I know this to be true I still feel a wave of anger towards myself rise within me. Some consulting detective I make. Sure I can link up obscure clues and solve difficult crimes but none of those skills had helped me against Moriarty. Because of me and my decision John is injured and might not recover. I sigh and run a hand through my hair, pausing when I notice the white bandage wrapped around it. 

The explosion had been bigger than I was expecting. Much bigger than the size of the explosive vest suggested. Wincing in pain I squeese my eyes shut as images crowd my mind. Though I have tried to block the memories out I find myself remembering the sheer force of the explosion blasting me backwards off my feet- of hitting the water of the pool and plunging beneath the surface- sinking into icy cold water that had taken my breath away... A shudder runs down my spine. I suck in a raggard breath that abruptly changes into a cough when I begin to choke. Panic flares through me. What is going on? I am sitting in a hospital, not drowning in an icy pool. I try to tell myself it is nothing but a memory but intense pain stabs through my chest, causing the edges of my vision to momentarily fade to black. My breathing becomes desperate as I struggle to suck any air into my lungs. All of a sudden I begin to feel afraid and uncertain. What the hell is happening to me?! 

I choke again, this time tasting tangy iron as a thick, warm liquid fills my mouth. Dimly, as though it is coming from a great distance away from me, I hear urgent voices shouting yelling for aid but I ignore them. The only thing I am able to focus on is John's concerned face hovering above me, which is odd because I could have sworn he was lying in a hospital bed with shrapnel wounds to his chest... Even though my vision is blurry I am able to see the fear in his eyes. I try to say something, to reassure him that every will be okay but the agonising pain in my chest makes even the smallest of sounds impossible. Moving is also something I am not even going to attempt. 

The steady beeping I heard earlier has now become a stuttering whine which is growing ever fainter; the universal symbol that somewhere close by somebody's life is slowing drifting away. I am not able to dwell on that thought for long however because suddenly, without any warning, the pain in my chest increases, crashing over me in never-ending waves that I fear will eventually drown me completely. I gasp again and cough violently enough to leave me feeling weak and empty once it has passed. When I briefly glance down I am alarmed to see spots of scarlet blood dotting the previously pristine sheets. At least now I understand why John looked so afraid. A feeling of tiredness tugs at my eyelids, incredibly persistent despite my attempts to fight it off. A yawn escapes me. What was I so worried about? It can not have been anything important if I am unable to remember it. Oh well, maybe it will come back to me after a sleep. This latest case had been incredibly draining. Near me the beeping pulse of the heart monitor grows quieter and less frequent- something for which I am glad because it was beginning to get on my nerves, despite what the dying noise signifies. I relax, all of the tension draining from my body. It can not hurt to rest for a while... 


	2. John's goodbye

There is nothing I can do but listen as the heart moniter marking every beat of Sherlock's pulse begins to flatten out into a horrible whine that fills the air. I barely notice the medical staff desperatly trying to restore Sherlock back to life and simply stare into space, feeling more than a little dazed. How the hell have we ended up here? How did the day turn out so badly? I badly wish I knew the answer to these questions. Maybe if I did I would be able to understand why this was happening. I can't believe it is barely seven hours ago since Sherlock smiled slyly over his shoulder as he left the flat, smug in the knowledge he would easily be able to track down the person strapping explosive vests to innocent people... how wrong he had been. Even with his intellect I don't think he could possibly have foreseen the twisted direction events had taken. With a pained sigh I close my eyes, resting my head back against the smooth leather of the chair as I do so. Ever since we arrived at the hospital I have found myself reliving the terrible things that had happened, despite my attempts to block them out. 

Once again I find my thoughts transported back to the silent emptyness of the swimming pool. The explosive vest had felt like an impossible weight dragging me down as I waited for Sherlock to turn up. Throughout the wait Moriarty had laughed in my ear, taunting me with the simple fact that he had finally managed to beat the great Sherlock Holmes. The whole time I had been praying Sherlock wouldn't come; that he would give the memory stick to Lestrade and give up this idea of luring out the actual criminal. Of course in the end Sherlock hadn't been able to resist. I can still remember the shock on his face when he intially saw me, as though he honestly believed for a second that I could have been the one behind the horrific murders. Even now the thought stings a little. I suppose though I can't be too annoyed at Sherlock because, honestly, I had never believed he would actually pull the trigger. 

I am sure he could have come up with another way out. Sure Moriarty pretty much had us cornered but there must have been another solution; things can't have been so desperate that Sherlock would willingly endanger our lives...could they? The thought makes me pause for a moment and brings me back to the reality of the hospital room and the medical staff's frantic activity. I stare blankly at it. At the time I had been almost certain I was going to die. Only Sherlock's quick thinking of shoving me into the deep end of the pool had saved me from the worst of the fire and the deadly shards of metal and concrete flying through the air. I had managed to escape with only superficial cuts and bruises and a mild concussion from where I had collided with the side of the pool. All in all I had been exceptionally lucky...unlike Sherlock. Suffering from severe burns and with shards of metal embedded in his lungs and chest it had been highly doubtful he would even survive the trip to the hospital. Twice the medical staff had been forced to resuscitate him; the second time having to briefly put him in a medically induced coma. Not that it had lasted long. The doctors and surgeons had quickly realised it would take nothing short of a miracle to save Sherlock Holmes. Sadly a miracle had never arrived. 

A wave of sadness rises within me and I find myself angrily wiping away tears with the back of my hand. Crying is pointless, it will not save Sherlock or change the things that have happened. Behind me someone, a familiar voice, clears their throat but does not say anything. I don't have to look round to know who they are. Poor Mycroft has arrived just in time to see his little Brother finally slip away. The thought makes me draw a deep, shuddering breath. It can't end like this can it? The years solving crimes with Sherlock, the friendship I have with him. Can it really all just slip away? By the bed the medical staff step back with drained, exhausted expressions on their faces, giving me a clear view of the bed. Without his usual vitality Sherlock looks shrunken and pale. Even the blood staining the bandages wrapped around his chest looks oddly drained of its normally garish colours. One of the medical staff slowly intones date and time of death before all of them slowly filter from the room. A doctor leans over and switches off the heart rate moniter as he passes it, cutting off the montonous drone of the flatline. Suddenly, horribly, the enormity of what is happening finally hits me. No more solving crimes, no more watching a brilliant mind at work, no more excitment...no more Sherlock... 

A violent shiver runs through me and ice oozes through my veins. Burying my head in my hands I burst into loud sobs that shakes me entire body, not caring that there are witnesses to my sorrow. I feel Mycroft lightly lay a hand on my shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. He doesn't have to say anything, I can tell he is also silently suffering (though unlike me he would never show it. It seems impossible that events could have gone downhill so quickly. A feeling of numbness sweeps over me. Surely it can't all end like this; it just isn't fair after everything we have been through. I should be the one lying dead in a hospital bed, not Sherlock- how can someone so full of life just simply stop... It can't end like this...it simply can't. 


End file.
